


Feathered by the Moonlight

by Ladycat



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Found Families, Post: s05e22 The Gift
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-11
Updated: 2014-02-11
Packaged: 2018-01-12 00:43:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,246
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1179884
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ladycat/pseuds/Ladycat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Spike inhales too much, feeling ribs long healed strain at the pressure. “Of course I was. She wouldn’t have left you with me, otherwise.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Feathered by the Moonlight

“Do you remember when I first visited you here?”

The topic isn’t really unexpected. She’s been in an introspective mood all day, idly winding her way through shadowed, tree-lined paths that get darker and gloomier with every word she expresses. She’s not _happy_ about it, eyes flickering this way and that as branches of memories reach out to try and snag at her. 

But now that she’s started, she can’t seem to stop. Spike understands that.

“Yeah.” He wants to just stop there. To halt the images that form—misty and lined with specters that weren’t there the first time—in his mind. He could probably get away with it, too: she doesn’t require participation, just a willing ear and a comforting shoulder to rest against. But he’s never been one to stay silent. Especially when there’s pain to be had. “Right annoying you were. Wouldn’t let—” _your mum_ “—me watch my telly with your going-on about how less than posh it was in here. It’s a crypt, ’bit. Not supposed to make you think of the Upper West.”

She giggles a little, but those long eyebrows furrow. “Upper West?” She twists, bending her swan-neck at an impossible angle to look up at him. “What’s that?”

“New York, love.” He can’t stay caustic at her, not even when she wants the verbal give and take, all flash and bang with no lasting heat underneath. Not when she looks at him like this, eyes so wide Spike thinks he can fall into them. Limpid pools of water, is what the ponce that still lives in the back of his brain wants to call them. The phrase evokes lagoons made misty and unreal by overhanging willow trees, like that blasted cartoon she made him watch a few nights back, everything singing like those places were _nice_ and _romantic_. Spike knows what those places are actually like: cold, dark, usually smelling of some kind of rot, and full of insects that liked to sting, finding every soft bit that isn’t covered and orifices to fly into. Hardly romantic.

Dawn doesn’t blink very often. She can wait longer than any mortal Spike’s ever seen—not that this is a talent he looks for—and it reinforces the metaphor. Her eyes change color as he stares at them. They’re always _blue_ , deep and rich like a Dali painting, but that’s the background. Emotions send the foreground on a sliding scale of shades: anger bleaching until the irises are nearly as crystal and pale as Spike’s are; affection adds greens to the palate, shimmering over top the way mineral pools inside damp, dark caves offer warmth and color just when a person needs it most. That’s what her eyes are, Spike decides. They’re the kinds of pools that can boil a man’s flesh off his bones, or warm him while the rest of the landscape freezes, blues and greens and yellows and reds swirling in sulfur-tainted depths until they dazzle.

But that’s the man’s impression, Spike knows. The demon inside him just thinks _young_ when Dawn looks at him like this. _Stupid_. Foolishly trusting the one thing a mortal woman should never, ever trust. Giving herself to something that knows only take.

Spike closes his eyes, dropping his head to press cool skin against warm. “Upper West side is where all the posh live. Apartment buildings that look like miniature castles inside, each floor a different design, with armies of staff to take care of ’em.”

Spike misses New York. Or any city, really; they’re so easy to get lost in, a warren of nooks and crannies just perfect for whiling away hours doing nothing. Spike knows cities. Knows how to find the dosh to impress a girl, how to find the games that she’ll want nothing to do with, later, when she’s snug in her bed, safe and secure behind the magic spell he’s made Willow teach him.

Sometimes he dreams that her father comes and takes her to L.A. Spike goes too, of course, and he stays with her until she forgets about the world her sister lived in, becomes a normal girl who doesn’t need a guard-dog dressed in fangs and leather to offer her shelter. He’ll fade, then, just drift into the city to watch from afar as she grows up, finds a bloke that treats her right and becomes nothing more than one of the mindless, teeming humans who sleep walk through their lives.

Sometimes he thinks this is the best future for all of them.

“Miniature castles?” she repeats. “That’s... weird. Don’t they want indoor plumbing?” The words contain only the barest hint of teasing, already forgotten as she’s drawn back to the goal she’s been skirting around all day. “I was scared.”

“Scared of what?” He doesn’t have to ask when she’s referring to; he hasn’t forgotten that first real time he met her, either. Of course, his memories are for other reasons. “Little ole me?”

Her grin is moonlight suddenly appearing from behind thick clouds—and disappears just as quickly. “‘You’re the only one strong enough to protect them’ she said. I heard her.” Dawn’s voice always grows boyish when she’s upset, deepening as she infuses it with what she believes is compelling belief that she _isn’t_ upset. Not at all. Not her. “Were you?”

Spike inhales too much, feeling ribs long healed strain at the pressure. “Of course I was. She wouldn’t have left you with me, otherwise.”

“Liar.”

“Yeah, all right. I’m lying.”

“But you would’ve tried?”

 _Till I was dust_ , he wants to say but doesn’t. She already knows. “With every non-existent breath I take.”

“Oh, god, please don’t put The Police in my head,” she moans. She’s trying for teenage angst, but doesn’t quite make it. There’s an undercurrent, like the oceans Spike played in when he was a child; you had to stay close to shore or you’d be miles away in moments. “Or, worse, that stupid remake Puffy made.”

Spike chuckles but stays silent. There’s more coming, each meandering turn bring them closer and closer to the beast that lives in this forest’s belly.

“They got mad at her. For leaving us with you.”

No question as to who ‘they’ and ‘us’ were. Spike tugs the locks that spill over his fingers, twisting them absently. “Back then, I don’t blame them. Hadn’t... “ _proven myself_ , is what comes to mind. That’s not something he can really say, though, out loud where god and country can hear it. Maybe even hold him to it. But seconds tick into a full minute before Spike manages, “Well, I’d tried to kill them so often, is all. Wasn’t exactly a friend and ally, as it were.”

“Are you now?”

Spike curses the easy line he’s given her. Stupid, that. As she’s decidedly not. “An ally,” he temporizes.

Dawn sits up abruptly, the force in her little body almost pushing Spike off the sofa they’re crashed on. She glares at him, arms folded in an imitation that’s absolutely an unconscious imitation and nearly kills Spike every times he sees it. “You’re our friend,” she says in her ‘make it so’ voice. 

It’s a surprisingly effective voice, too, as she’s got five adults walking on tiptoe around her.

Spike resettles his hips onto the sofa, tucking an arm behind his head as he gazes up at the ceiling. “Doesn’t really matter, nibblet. Whether we like each other’s got nothing to do with it.”

She snorts. “Oh, riiight. Because you and Xander totally still hate each other, when you go off and play pool and drink beer and come back home at two am still laughing about something or other Xander won’t tell me about that probably has to do with girls and breasts and sex.”

Spike stares at her, waiting. There’s more, of course.

“And don’t do that stupid eyebrow trick when you make yourself look like you're four years old but you know everything about everyone and nothing can surprise you! It’s stupid. And it makes your lips do this weird cupping thing.”

Spike is aware of his lips pursing out further and has to hastily draw them back. “Cupping thing?” he repeats. He’s trying for deadpan but there’s too much amusement to really make it work.

“Yes.” She’s pouting, now, chin down so she can look up at him through lowered lashes. “They get wrinkly and... and cup-y! Like they hold water or something.”

Spike continues staring at her. He’s really not sure what to say.

She flushes, because she always does, smooth, china-doll skin going fuzzy pink like the shirts Tara’s been wearing lately. Spike loves her face, loves every bit of her body. She’s got the long-limbed grace that Dru had—or she will, once she grows out of this coltish inability to determine which limbs go where—and when Red starts going on about Dawn needing hobbies, Spike’s going to press for dancing lessons again. She needs the training to pull herself back inside her own skin.

Without thinking, Spike leans forward to run his fingers down the downward sweep of her jaw, thumbing over the point of her chin. She lets him. Never thinks of flinching or rolling her eyes in happiness badly masked by annoyance. She just holds still and lets him.

“They are,” she says, smiling too much to pull of rebellious when he tweaks her nose. “You’re shaped funny, Spike. Your head is _way_ too big.”

“So this is about me, now?”

“Yes! It totally is about you. And the weird way you’re put together, all tiny from the neck down—”

“Oi!”

“— _with_ your big giant head like a pumpkin on top. How does it not fall off, huh? It’s too big. Your neck can’t possibly hold it up all by itself, and if she didn’t like you—if they don’t like you—how come it’s always you who I get sent to?”

Spike doesn’t moderate his frown, continuing to glare at her like she’s just insulted more of his person. He happens to be incredibly sexy, thank you. Had some of the most discerning lovers, over the years, the ones that require perfection in body and skill and that’s definitely not something he’s going to tell Dawn about. He doesn’t hide things from her, not the way her humans do, but he’s got some discretion.

Also, she’s trembling and not at all interested in how dead sexy he may or may not be.

He’s gotten used to hugs, over the past few weeks; no longer just stands there, arms flapping at his waist like dead fish while her warm body holds his. Now his body molds to her slim frame, bird-thin bones pressed into his own dead flesh as easily as they do her own bed. She snuffles against his shoulder, clutching his t-shirt as she tries to regulate her breathing.

“Guess it comes down to respect,” Spike says after a moment.

“Really?” She’s skeptical, which is good. “’Cause... I’m thinking really not?”

Her heart is beating so fast, pat-pat-pat against him. She’s been worried about this for a while, he guesses, unsure of how that should make him feel. He likes being Dawn’s favorite—likes being _someone’s_ favorite. But he still doesn’t really understand why she trusts him so much. He’s a vampire. She’s... dinner.

Sighing, Spike starts from the very top of her skull, following the slick glide of hair to their ends and then repeating the motion. “Not that kind of respect, platelet. Your humans don’t think I’m smart or somehow... _worthy_ of much of anything. Told you, not their friend. And they don’t really trust me.” Dawn makes a small noise and, safely unobserved, Spike smiles at it. She’s become his fiercest champion. “About some things, maybe, ’bit, but not really. And that’s how it should be.”

“Okay, forgetting about how stupid that statement is, what does this have to do with respect?”

Her hair is freshly washed, still damp and cool as he separates each individual strand. There are split ends, harsh under his finger tips, but not many. He’s always known that this is what they’re leading up to; Dawn’s not introspective, not like her sister was at the end, and while she’s good at just _knowing_ some things, believing so strongly that they become true in spite of reality—she’s still a child. Scared, alone, and without the two people she’s depended on most. 

He wishes the others didn’t coddle her so much. Then _he_ could be the one to skirt uncomfortable topics. “They trust I’m not going to die, Dawn. They respect that I’ve survived things that giant snakes and evil, soulless vampires and patch-work monsters haven’t. That’s why she sent the two most precious things she had to me, back then, and it’s why her friends can’t say no, now.”

Wetness burns against his neck. “Because you run away,” she sniffles, blinking so hard it tickles to keep the tears inside. “Live to fight another day.”

Spike swings both their bodies upright, cradling Dawn as he turns her so he can see her face. Her eyes are swimming but no more tears fall, that curious combination of vulnerability and determination that is a uniquely Summers trait keeping them back. “Yeah. That’s right. I’m an evil, selfish, soulless bastard of a vampire who’s only responsibility is me. I get to be a coward. I _live_ for being a sodding coward if it means I get a few more days of unlife. Vampires aren’t big on last stands, nibblet.” Well, not unless they’re insane vampires bent on destroying the world, but this wasn’t the time for such a qualifier. “I don’t owe anyone anything. I don’t have to save the world.”

She’s losing her tears as he speaks; it’s not the expected response but for all Spike knows each tick and tock of this girl, anticipating her reactions to his own shortcomings has never worked out well. The more bare-faced honest he is, the more she seems to appreciate him—and since honestly means reminding her that she’s _food_ , he’s never understood that.

She sniffles, but it’s the type that comes at the end, pulling everything back inside to fester for another day. “Okay. I... get that. You’re a coward who’ll do everything he can to save his own life because nobody else is important.”

He opens his mouth to agree—and then stops. Glares down at her. “Don’t try and put words in my mouth, bitlet. It’s not very nice.”

“But I’m not! Really! You’re selfish. I totally get it.” But she’s starting to smile again, snuggling trustingly against him like his sole purpose for being there is to let her. “Evil to the core. Totally uninterested in saving anybody but himself.”

“You are not near old enough for this level of sarcasm.”

“Who said I’m being sarcastic? I’m telling you that you are mad, bad, and dangerous to know.” She’s totally earnest now, even nodding the way good sales people do when they’re lying through their artificially whitened teeth. “That you’ll run away when you should stay and fight, you’ll abandon the people who you say aren’t your friends—even though you hang out with them all the time—because you are the only world worth saving.”

Spike starts tapping his forefinger. It hits the tiny rivet-stud at the edge of her jeans’ pocket, the nail making a soft clacking sound over and over. “Are you trying to piss me off?” he asks.

“Is it working?”

He glares.

She smiles angelically.

He thinks about going game-face, just to make his glare really effective—but Dawn usually laughs when she sees that face, so it’s probably not the best intimidation route out there. Which is probably a good thing, as Dawn is looping her arms around his neck, as trusting as the child she still is, and sighing in contentment. “If we have to run—you know, for some unknown reason—and it’s just you and me because everyone else is safe, but we’ve got to scatter around and... where would you take me?”

One day, he’s going to bottle up whatever it is that makes her accepting things so readily. She’s not really naive; not certain the way all children are that things will go her way because she can’t conceive of anything else. She knows how bad things can get, the apocalyptic nightmares she’s described eerily mirroring Spike’s. She just won’t worry about it, not when she can bully or pester or pout her way into a better topic. Willow calls it a coping mechanism and that she’s not _really_ as cognizant of things as Spike claims she is.

Spike thinks Willow is the one stuck using coping mechanisms. In this regard, Dawn is all grown up.

“Hmm. Cities are always a good choice. But it’s getting towards winter time, so...have you ever seen snow?” He settles back against the sofa, content now that whatever issue that’s so plagued her is settled, the lurking creature returned to its cave. It’s not _gone_ —she’s not insane and she’ll always have questions and concerns and the kind of demons that have no form to be destroyed. But the lowering menace that’s hovered over her from the moment she woke him up has vanished, not even leaving a filmy, soapy residue behind.

“Snow?” She wrinkles her nose. “Isn’t that cold?”

He smiles, eyes half closing as he remembers winters when it was really _winter_ , not just a bit on the rainy side. It’s so easy to forget all the pain and annoyance, instead saying, “Sure, it’s cold. And wet, too, but that’s not important. It’s _beautiful_ , nibblet. Like frosting over everything, thick enough that you can’t even hear your own breathing. Everything’s just quiet, like a blanket wrapped ’round the world. Bright even at nighttime, sky almost red as it comes down thicker and higher... ”

He talks to her about snow and all the things they’ll do in Montana—her choice—if they ever go there, until it’s evening and doesn’t stop as he walks her back to her home where Xander’s attempting to cook dinner that night. Dawn rolls her eyes when she sees that and goes to help—which makes it worse, of course—leaving Spike to wave at empty air.

He’s got his hand on the doorknob when he hears, “Spike? Why the hell is Dawn talking about Montana? There’s nothing in Montana except cows and if you’ve explained cow-tipping to her... ”

When he gets back to the kitchen, two beers are on the table. Dawn is raising one eyebrow, arms folded, clearly daring him to walk away from free beer and Xander who’s heating up a bag of blood even as he pokes at the congealing mess in the frying pan. “Just talking about snow, is all.”

“Snow? Ah, yes.” Xander looks misty eyed as he says, “I remember snow. All white and fluffy and—”

“You’ve never seen real snow in your life, you California-spoiled wanker.”

“Hey! I could have relatives! And, wait, it _did_ snow here a few years back on Christmas one time—please, please don’t ask—and it wasn’t white or fluffy or fun or anything. That is a load of media-hyped hooey, my friend. It is _cold_ and wet and it makes walking in possible and you pull muscles you never even knew you used for walking—Spike, shut up—and Dawn, why are you laughing so hard?”


End file.
